She, Myself & I (4 page)

“Sophie and I were just talking about this the other day. I told her I was going to have a one-night stand, but I was just trying to shock her,” I said.

“See, great minds think alike.”

I had to admit the idea was tempting. I did miss sex more than I thought I would, and I’d already run through all of the new releases at Blockbuster.

“Where am I supposed to find this hot-yet-dumb guy? I’m too old for the bar scene,” I said.

“Just ask, and the universe will provide,” Owen said.

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I thought so, too, at first, but Anton has been on a real kick about the power of positive thinking and it’s rubbing off on me.”

Anton was Owen’s boyfriend. He spent a lot of time meditating, and had a kooky New Age theory for just about everything. His life philosophy was that you should never work even a single day in a job you don’t love, so he was chronically unemployed and had been mooching off Owen for years. I’d always thought that Owen could do better, but since there wasn’t a tactful way for me to express this opinion, I kept my mouth shut.

“What if the universe just sends me another closeted gay man?” I asked.

“That’s where it comes in handy to have a gay friend. We come equipped with Gaydar. Just point me at your man, and I’ll let you know his orientation,” Owen promised.

“I could have used your Gaydar with Scott,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah. I think it was on the blink. But I really only met him briefly, once at your wedding and once when I ran into you at the Arboretum, and both times he shied away from me,” Owen said.

“I can’t imagine why,” I said dryly. During the course of my marriage, I’d attempted to set up a few dinners with Owen and Anton, but Scott had always had an excuse for not wanting to socialize with them. Since I preferred to see Owen without Anton anyway, I never pushed it, but I’d wondered at the time if Scott’s reluctance to get together with them might stem from some latent homophobia. Now I knew it was just another sign that I should have clued into.

One of the soft cruelties of divorce is that you’re forever digging up memories and reexamining them in the light of the split.

“Thanks for the Gaydar offer, but I don’t think I’ll need it. I’ll admit, the idea of a fling does sound tempting, but I can’t think of anything less appealing than going on yet another first date with some pompous asshole who will undoubtedly spend the entire night talking about himself, and then afterwards try to paw at my breasts in the front seat of his car,” I continued.

“Well then, stay away from the pompous assholes. Find someone who’s totally not your type, and keep it as anonymous and uncomplicated as you can,” Owen said. “But I’m telling you, you need to get laid, kiddo. You need it bad.”

Chapter Four

“I’m willing to chip in some for the kids, but I don’t see why she should get anything. I’ve supported her for twelve friggin’ years, while she sat at home on her ass. Mrs. Hector is . . . what do you call it? Underemployed? She’s under-employed. It’s time that bitch got a job and supported herself,” John Hector announced, thumping his hand on the walnut conference table for emphasis.

I took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. If it wasn’t bad enough that my asshole client kept referring to his wife as “that bitch” or the slightly less hostile “Mrs. Hector,” or that he was trying to wriggle out of paying child support for his own kids, it was his fault that the Hectors were getting divorced in the first place. Alicia Hector had tossed her husband out when she discovered he was cheating on her. With the twenty-year-old babysitter. While Alicia Hector was five months pregnant. Which was actually rather a fascinating phenomenon, because her husband was a short, fat, hairy little pimple of a man, and it was stunning to think that a young girl would find him even remotely attractive.

I dearly wished that Alicia had been the one to hire me, instead of John, because I would have so enjoyed ripping him into shreds during his deposition. But such was the lot of the divorce attorney—if you only agreed to represent clients who were gracious and kind and all-around nice people, you’d quickly starve.

“Mr. Hector. I think that we should be realistic. You don’t have a choice about the child support. Under Texas law, you’re required to pay an amount set by statute each month. The house would fall under community property, so if we can’t offset the value, we’ll argue that the house should be sold and the proceeds divided between you and Mrs. Hector. However, I should let you know that she would like to retain possession of the house until your youngest child leaves for college,” I began.

“What? No friggin’ way! That would be eighteen years! If anyone should get the friggin’ house, it should be me. And I don’t see why I should have to split anything with that bitch,” Mr. Hector fumed.

I indulged in a brief fantasy of leaping across the table and stabbing Mr. Hector in the eye with my silver Tiffany pen. But since I wasn’t quite yet ready to be carted off to jail, I instead snapped the cap onto my pen, closed my leather folio, and abruptly stood up.

“What, are we done already?” he asked.

“Yes, I have another client waiting for me. But I’ll talk to Mrs. Hector’s attorney tomorrow, and get back to you next week on how the negotiations are going. Wait here, and I’ll have my assistant bring you those documents after she photocopies them,” I said, and then smoothly exited the room before Mr. Hector could launch into another tirade about how he shouldn’t have to pay for his children’s health insurance or make yet another disgusting innuendo about how much of a ladies’ man he was.

I couldn’t bear spending one more minute with him. Hector—and every other divorced man out there like him—was just one more reason why I was never going to get emotionally involved with a man ever again. Just thinking about it made my stomach churn with anger, and my skin felt hot and stretched too tightly over my face.

Men, I thought. Cheating, lying, shitty, asshole men. Every last one of them.

I closed the door of the conference room tightly and then paused, trying to collect myself. There was no reason to let John Hector get to me. Yes, he was a repulsive individual, but I’d dealt with clients just like him—worse even—for years, and I’d never let any of them get to me before. The only way to make it in this business was to keep a clearly defined distance from the work. You don’t befriend your clients, and you also don’t waste energy fantasizing about attacking them Ninja-style.

“Will you please bring Mr. Hector his papers and then see him out, Sue?” I asked, pausing by the desk of my wonderfully efficient assistant to pick up my messages.

“Sure will. And Mr. Duncan is waiting for you in your office,” Sue said perkily.

Sue sported a year-round tan and wore her spiky hair short and burgundy red. She was the peppiest person I’d ever known—everything was always great, wonderful, chirp, chirp, chirp.

“Duncan? Who’s that?”

“He’s a new client, something to do with a custody issue. He said he was referred by Sophie,” Sue said, reading from the notes she’d recorded on the computerized calendar.

“Sophie . . . ,” I repeated, and then glanced through the window of the door to my office. It was Sophie’s carpenter, Zack. He was sitting at an angle, his back to the door, so I could only see a profile of his face, highlighted by the afternoon sun that streamed in.

The annoying winker, I thought, my heart sinking. Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse.

Zack turned suddenly and looked over his shoulder.

“Oh no. Oh God,” I said, and jumped back.

“What’s wrong?” Sue asked, staring at me.

“It’s just . . . do you have a mirror?”

Sue rummaged through her purse. “Yes, here. And you’d better take this lipstick, too. He’s really cute.”

“You think?” I asked, and flipped open the compact. I stared at my face, wondering if I really looked that sallow, or if it was just the effect of the fluorescent lighting, the arch-enemy of aging female skin. I dabbed on some of Sue’s red lip-gloss, and that seemed to help. But there was nothing I could do about the dark circles under my eyes or the streaks of gray I hadn’t gotten around to rinsing out of my hair.

“How do I look?” I asked Sue, who was now staring at me as though I had just sprouted an extra head. “What?”

“Nothing. You look great. It’s just . . . I’ve never seen you like this,” Sue said.

“Like what?”

“Nervous.”

“I’m not! He’s just a client, I barely know him. And what I do know of him, I don’t like.”

“Whatever you say,” Sue said, and nodded toward my office. “Go get him, tiger.”

I smoothed my hands over the jacket of my charcoal gray pantsuit and fretted that it was too masculine looking. And maybe I shouldn’t have let my stylist talk me into cutting my dark, straight, shoulder-length hair into such severe bangs. Sure, it looked great on all of the movie starlets, but what if it made me look like a dominatrix? Or a witch? I self-consciously tucked my hair behind my ears and then changed my mind and untucked it.

I gave myself a mental shake. What was the hell was I doing? It was ridiculous worrying about what Zack thought of me. He was a potential client, nothing more, and I didn’t even like him. And I’d certainly dealt with good-looking men before, without getting all fluttery and girly. In fact, I wasn’t even attracted to pretty men. Not that Zack was pretty, at least not in a toothpaste commercial kind of way. But Sophie was right, he looked just like one of those quirky carpenters who provide the eye candy on home improvement shows.

I took a deep, calming breath, sucked in my stomach, and pushed the door open to my office. Zack looked up at me as I entered, and he stood, smiling.

“Hi there,” Zack said.

Gone were the
Miami Vice
face stubble and soiled work clothes. Today he was clean-shaven and dressed neatly in khakis and a button-down white shirt.

“Hello,” I said, and smiled coolly at him as I walked around my desk and sat down. “How can I help you, Mr. Duncan?”

“Please call me Zack.”

“All right. Zack.” I nodded at him, encouraging him to continue. The sooner he told me what he was doing there, the sooner I could send him on his way.

“It’s about my stepdaughter, Grace,” Zack began, and then he stopped. “Or, ex-stepdaughter, I guess, since her mom and I are divorced.”

“And your ex-wife is . . . ,” I asked, my voice trailing off in a question, as I began to take neatly printed notes on a yellow legal pad: Zack Duncan. Divorced. Stepdaughter: Grace.

“Molly. Molly Fogel. We were married for a year, and Grace is her daughter from a previous relationship,” Zack said.

“Was Ms. Fogel married to Grace’s father?”

“No. And he’s not in the picture.”

“And is your divorce final?”

“Yes. It’s been over a year. And Molly was letting me see Grace a few times a week up until about a month ago. Now she’s getting married again, and she’s decided she doesn’t want me to have any more contact with Grace. She thinks it will complicate things if I stay in her life. That’s why I’m here—I was hoping there was some way I could get a court order to see Grace. I know we’re not biologically related, but I’m the only father she’s known.”

Zack leaned forward as he spoke, repeatedly clasping and unclasping his hands in front of him.

He’s nervous. Nervous and obviously upset,
I thought. My animosity toward him deflated. Who was this guy? Macho man candy, or dedicated family guy? Could he be both? Certainly not in my experience.

“How old is Grace?” I asked.

“She’s four,” Zack said, and he pulled out his wallet, flipped through it, and pulled out a small color photo of a smiling chubby-cheeked girl with a head full of brunette curls. The picture looked like it had been taken at one of those inexpensive mall studios, and Grace had been put in a forced pose—her head tipped to one side, resting on her hands, an ugly basket of plastic tulips in front of her.

“She’s precious. Look . . . Zack . . . the custody laws in Texas, in most states, have a very strong presumption in favor of the biological parents. And since you didn’t legally adopt Grace during your marriage to her mother, you just don’t have any standing to seek visitation. Perhaps if your ex-wife wasn’t a fit mother . . .”

“No, no. Molly’s great with Grace,” Zack said quickly.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think there’s anything I can do to help you,” I said. I laid my pen down on top of the yellow pad.

“I just thought . . . it doesn’t seem right that Molly could cut me out of Grace’s life like that. We’d talked about my adopting Grace, but then . . .” Zack hesitated, and seemed to be weighing whether he should continue. He sighed and suddenly looked tired. “Well, there’s no point in getting into it, I guess. It looks like I don’t have a choice.”

“I really am sorry. For what it’s worth, I think it’s wonderful that you want to stay involved,” I said impulsively. “Too many of the divorcing parents I deal with don’t seem to care about their own kids, much less try to seek visitation for their stepchildren.”

I normally try to avoid making personal comments about a client’s life—it was a rookie mistake I hadn’t made since I first started practicing law. One sympathetic comment, and suddenly my clients would think I was their best friend/shrink/mom, rather than a disinterested professional, and take to calling me constantly, asking for advice, divulging far more of their personal business than I’m comfortable hearing. It was much easier to keep everything on an entirely professional level, for everyone involved. But I felt unusually sympathetic to Zack’s plight, perhaps because I was starting to wonder if I’d misjudged him at our first meeting.